


bleed me dry

by soperiso



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/M, Halloween, Loss of Powers, Mild Smut, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Stabbing, Vampire!MJ, Vampires, so much blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soperiso/pseuds/soperiso
Summary: “Okay, okay,” Peter concedes, “We’ll go to this so-called 'haunted house' on Halloween night at 10 o’clock to make it as spooky as possible. Meet at Flash’s house before? I’m assuming we can’t just take a subway there.”“Yep,” Flash says, “It’s on a hill in the middle of a field.” he lowers his voice, “Where no one can hear you scream.”The entire group laughs because what is this, some kind of cheap horror movie?Betty snorts. “The only screaming will be from you when you see a rat and flip your shit, Flash.”—or, peter parker learns the meaning of fear.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to seekrest and thorkyriebabes for all your help with this fic!!

A sharp _ding_ compels Peter Parker to lift his head from his work, directing a warm smile at the three new occupants of the dimly lit cafe. Their chatter fills the small space as they walk towards him.

“Sorry we’re late,” says Ned, “ _Someone_ ,” he looks pointedly at Flash, “couldn’t find his keys.”

Peter sighs, “I don’t know why you and Betty don’t just get a car, Ned.”

“This is New York! The only people who own cars are those whose parents are rich enough to buy one for them. I’m not about to drop thirty-thousand dollars on something I’ll rarely use.”

Peter changes the subject before Ned can go on his customary anti-car rant. “Okay, okay. Are you guys ready to study? Midterms are not gonna wait for you to buy a coffee.”

“Yes,” Betty says, fishing a credit card out of her ESU bag—the same one they give to every student to make them feel a little bit better about spending such a ridiculous amount to get a college education—and pulling it out with a flourish when she finds it, “They are.”

Ned flutters his eyelashes at her. “Can you get me a mocha, babe?”

Betty rolls her eyes but giggles at his antics, leaning up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Anything for you, babe.”

“Can you get one for me, too, babe?” Flash says, feigning innocence.

She raises an eyebrow at him, then turns her back on them and walks up to the counter. 

“So,” Flash says, brushing off Betty’s dismissal, “What are we doing for Halloween?”

Peter shrugs, “Frat party?” Because, really, what else is there to do other than sit inside and gorge themselves on overpriced candy?

“That’s lame. That’s _so_ lame,” Flash says.

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “What do you suggest, oh enlightened one?”

“I say,” He leans forward and pauses for dramatic effect, “We go to a haunted house.”

Ned bursts out laughing. “A haunted house? What are we, fifteen?”

Flash grumbles, sinking into his chair. “I mean a _real_ haunted house. Well, an _allegedly_ haunted house. With ghosts and stuff.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, Flash,” Peter says over his textbook, “Everyone knows that.”

“Says the guy who fights real, actual lizard people in his spare time,” Ned says.

“That’s different,” Peter says, putting his textbook down.

“It’s not _that_ different,” Betty says as she places drinks in front of Ned and Flash, who both smile at her gratefully, “What, are you scared?”

Peter sputters, “Are you joking? Of course I’m not scared. I can take a ghost. I could take a ghost in my sleep.”

“I say we do it,” She says, “It beats sitting around. Or going to a,” she shudders, “frat party.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter concedes, “We’ll go on Halloween night at 10 o’clock to make it as spooky as possible. Meet at Flash’s house before? I’m assuming we can’t just take a subway there.”

“Yep,” Flash says, “It’s on a hill in the middle of a field.” he lowers his voice, “Where no one can hear you scream.”

The entire group laughs because what is this, some kind of cheap horror movie?

Betty snorts. “The only screaming will be from you when you see a rat and flip your shit, Flash.”

—

The long car ride to the so-called “haunted” mansion is accompanied by the pitter-patter of rain landing on the window. Peter stares out the window, his head resting against it, watching the raindrops do an intricate dance with one another, little pieces of a much larger display that covers the entire glass pane. 

“Do you guys think we should head back?” He asks, peeling his cheek off of the window, “This is a pretty heavy storm—it doesn’t look like it’ll be letting up anytime soon.”

“Stop worrying, we’ll be inside so it’ll be fine,” Flash says, taking a moment’s glance at Peter before gluing his eyes back to the road.

“I don’t know, Flash,” Ned pipes up from the backseat of Flash’s Audi. He grips Betty’s hand as a particularly loud roar of thunder reverberates in their chests, “Maybe we should head back. Maybe this is an omen.”

“It’s okay, Ned,” Betty says, squeezing his hand as she holds it in her own, “This all adds to the fun, right? What’s Halloween without a bit of a scare? We’ll laugh about this later, I promise.”

Ned offers her a grateful smile. Tense, but grateful nonetheless. He opens his mouth to say something, but Peter’s yell cuts him off.

“Flash, pull over! Right now!”

Flash veers the car off to the left just before a shadowed figure dashes across the road in front of them, jerking them all against their seatbelts. It stops at the edge of the road and turns to face them. They are met with the shocking sight of blood-red eyes before the figure runs off into the night.

“What the hell?” Betty says, rubbing at a crick in her neck, “What _was_ that?”

Flash flounders for a moment before saying, “It was a deer, obviously.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t amend his statement. 

_Deer don’t have red eyes_ , Peter thinks.

 _Deer don’t run on two feet_ , Peter thinks.

 _I should see what that was_ , Peter thinks.

The time he has spent as New York’s finest vigilante has changed the way he thinks. There are immediate threats, and there are curious things that don’t require further investigation. This is the latter, for whatever it was is gone and doesn’t seem to have had any ill intentions. This logic, though, doesn’t stop the TV static from buzzing in the back of his neck, telling him to _go after it, see what it was, danger, danger, danger._ He stops himself because if that thing _is_ dangerous, the last thing Peter wants to do is drag his friends into whatever peril it would put them into. It’s better to let it be (as much as that pains him).

For a moment, the only sounds in the car are the rain, still falling against the car’s exterior, the thunder, still rumbling straight into their cores, and the wind caressing the sides of the car, threatening to push them over but not quite strong enough to do so. 

“Let’s just keep driving,” Peter mutters. He’s wishing more and more by the minute that they had stayed home.

The road up to the mansion is long, winding, and meandering; it’s sending them right and left and right and left until Peter thinks he just might vomit. Eventually, the mansion peeks out from over a hill, the weather vane spinning in the storm. As they keep moving towards it, more of the house is revealed to him. They arrive in front of the mansion. Before getting out of the car, Peter takes a moment to marvel at the vaguely dilapidated state of it.

Beneath the weather vane is a large room that stands above the rest of the house. From this point stems the second uppermost level, then two more levels beneath that. The top two levels are adorned with large balconies held up by small ionic pillars—long, ivory cylinders that are topped off with a symmetrical twist on both sides of it, much like the horns of a mountain goat. Four large ionic pillars hold up the front of the mansion. All of the pillars are chipped and worn, showing years—if not decades—of neglect. The paint on the mansion is severely faded, with not much left to show that it was ever anything but a muddy brown. Peter thinks that at some point it may have been white to match the pillars. The stairs leading up to the French doors are in a similarly dilapidated state, dipping down in places where people must have often passed over. If there was a garden at the front of the house, it has long since been reduced to soil.

Peter can see why people might think this place is haunted.

He opens the car door and steps out onto the grass. It crunches under his feet. The wind blows sharp raindrops onto his skin as the cold seeps into his veins. He shivers.

Betty leads the way up to the mansion, taking initiative as none of them much wanted to take the first step. The doorknob creaks as she turns it, and her hand comes away with something black smeared across it. 

The door sends a gust of wind across the entry room that upturns dust particles that lay across every object, sending them flying up into the air and right into their lungs. They cough, entering the room and closing the door behind them. Ned shines his phone’s flashlight along the wall until he finds a light switch, which he then flips on. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

“Does everyone have enough battery on their phone?” Flash whispers. 

It doesn’t seem right to talk at a normal volume in a place like this.

Everyone else nods, but Peter cringes.

“Come _on,_ man,” Ned whispers, “Why didn’t you charge it?”

“I forgot!” Peter whispers back, “I have a lot of stuff to worry about—this wasn’t very high on my list!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Betty whispers, “It’s not like we’re gonna be splitting up, anyway.” She grins, slightly forced but with good intent, and shines her flashlight under her chin to cast a shadow across her face, “Let’s go explore this dump.”

—

The house turns out to be just that: a dump. The furniture is worn and covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt. The decorative objects are the same. It’s as though anyone who lived there simply disappeared, for nothing is out of place. The chairs are all neatly tucked underneath tables or desks. The books are all on the shelves—in alphabetical order, no less. Curiously, Peter hasn’t heard of a single title he sees. 

More curious, however, are the two gleaming red dots that stare at Peter from the end of the hallway to his right. He finds himself lost in the enrapturing red, mindlessly wandering towards their glow.

The world is spiraling around him, and the only constant is the all-encompassing light that shines from those little circles. Peter does not know what they are, but he doesn’t need to. He need not know anything other than to _obey_. To follow wherever the red lights may lead him.

So, he follows into the haze. He cannot see anything but red. Glowing, pulsating all around him. There is nothing in this world but red, warm and languid like split ink seeping slowly onto the rug in front of a fire so powerful that its light flickers across every wall in the room, promising power and heat and _passion_ so intense that Peter may never long for anything else as long as he may live.

All at once, the red dissipates and Peter finds himself alone with an odd, empty feeling in his gut. As if he lost something important, though he can’t remember what. The room he has found himself in is barren, without a single lamp or window. It is entirely dark and cold.

“Ned? Betty? Flash?” He calls out, feeling his way unseeingly throughout the room. The only voices he hears in return are his own echoes, bouncing off the pitch-black walls of the room (is it even a room?) he has found himself in. The back of his neck may as well be on fire with how much it’s warning him of _danger, danger, DANGER,_ but there’s nothing he can do because he’s well and truly alone. He wishes he had charged his phone. He is so preoccupied that he trips right over something, lurching into a heap of limbs on the hardwood floor. He feels his right elbow sting and runs his fingers over it. His elbow is wet with blood. The flames consuming the back of his neck turn to fireworks, sharp and heavy with their warnings.

_This is fine,_ he rationalizes with himself. _You bleed often. You’ve been through far worse than this_. 

And it really is fine, because he still has his powers.

With this in mind, he keeps wandering through this never-ending maze of a house. Eventually, he sees the faintest of light coming from behind a closed door, which he opens to reveal a hallway. Windows cover the right side of the hallway, their panes crossing over one another to form a diamond pattern. The moon shines through, illuminating the dust that seems to flow throughout the entire mansion and creating sunbeam-like rays, only fainter and of colder colors.

Peter hears footsteps behind him and turns to greet his friends. He gasps.

It is not Ned, nor Betty, nor Flash who is behind him, but rather a woman he doesn’t recognize. She is familiar, though, in an odd way that Peter can’t quite put his finger on. She is taller than him, but not ridiculously so. Her long, curly hair is the deepest of browns. It flows over her ears, around her shoulders, and down her back in a cascade of waves that remind him not of the ocean but of a lake on which a fisherman paddles along with his oars, creating ripple after ripple in the previously serene waters. Her dress wraps around her neck and leaves her shoulders bare in favor of wrapping around her torso. The dress is made of a smooth, silk-like substance that pools around her ankles and shimmers in the moonlight as she walks ever-so-slowly towards him. Her eyes stare unblinkingly at him, the shape of almonds and the color of the wood from a walnut tree. His gaze travels from her eyes to her lips, softly bowed and plump; a deep red that is utterly kissable. He finds himself focusing on the color of her skin—the beautiful brown that reminds him of long walks through the humid woods at twilight; the branches casting shadows over the path and the cool October air turning his ears and nose red. 

She is the most beautifully terrifying person he has ever seen.

He has a million one-liners on the tip of his tongue—anything to hide the fact that he wants nothing more than to run (whether away from her or into her arms, he doesn’t know)—but what comes out is an all-too-simple “Who are you?”

When she is no more than five paces in front of Peter, the woman smiles, her lips parting to reveal two dagger-like teeth among the rest of her pearly whites. 

Peter understands what his powers had been warning him about.

He stands his ground, even as she continues to get closer. “I don’t know what you want with me, but you need to leave.”

Her eyes darken. “Or what?” She says, her voice like molten lava.

“Or I’ll _make_ you.”

She stops directly in front of him, hardly a foot in between them. The scent of citrus and sandalwood, along with a hint of incense, comes with her. She looks down at Peter, tilting her head slightly to the right, an almost mocking look crossing her face. “With those powers of yours?”

_How could she possibly–_

Peter squares his jaw, adrenaline thudding through him like fingers drumming anxiously against a desk.

Her eyes become a deep red. The same red that had all but consumed Peter moments prior, he realizes with a start. The same red from the drive up here. The same red that almost tore him to pieces. 

“No, you won’t,” She says, her voice eerily soft.

And Peter’s world spins on its axis.

“Wh-what did you do to me?” He says. He already knows.

The power that had come to be a part of him—viscerally attached to his very soul—was gone. In an instant. Where before there was seemingly endless strength below his skin, there was nothing but bone. Nothing but bone and blood. Without his powers, he can’t protect his friends. He can’t protect _himself_ . There’s _nothing he can do_ . He feels faint, almost ready to pass out. There’s an utter nothingness at the back of his neck, a stark contrast to the endless buzzing that had been there before. He has nothing. He has been reduced to nothing. He is numb. She took everything that makes him Spider-Man—that makes him _Peter—_ and tore it from him.

She moves closer to him, but he backs away. Harried steps that thud against the hardwood floor as he tries to escape her grasp. He refuses to turn away from her and leave his back unguarded. She doesn’t follow him, electing, rather, to smirk. Peter realizes why when his back hits the wall with a _thud_. She stalks towards him once more, and he has nowhere to go. She stops when they’re so close that their breath intermingles in the icy air. 

A sharp fingernail traces Peter’s jaw.

He takes in a shaking breath. “Are you going to turn me?”

She laughs, a soft timbre that would make him smile under any other circumstances, “Into a vampire? Maybe,” She says, “I haven’t decided yet. Depends on how your blood tastes.”

She pounces upon him, quickly flipping him around so that his back faces her and sinking her teeth into the milky expanse of his neck. 

Peter doesn’t scream, even as her teeth tear through him, even as sharp pain spreads up to his ears and down to his navel, even as he can _feel_ her pulling his blood out of his body and into hers. He doesn’t scream because he’s used to pain. He’s used to dire situations in which there seems to be no out, no way to fix things, no back-up plan. It’s how he lives. It might as well be how he dies.

The sharpness turns dull and throbbing as she continues feasting upon him. Her hands come up to hold him in place: one around his neck, nails digging into his skin, and one around his stomach, holding him flush against her in a way that presses her breasts against his back.

Peter whimpers softly, the only outward indication that he feels anything at all.

The woman—the _vampire_ —pulls her fangs out of him, relinquishing her hold on him and stepping back. “I have never…” She says, breathless, “I have never tasted one quite like you.”

Peter stares at her lips, where his blood has collected, and continues watching as thick droplets fall onto her chin, down her neck, and over her chest. He becomes entranced in it, unable to pry his eyes away. There is something about her that pulls him in, regardless of how strongly every cell in his body is screaming for him to _GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT,_ even without his powers. And yet, he stays. Not because he wants to, but because nothing on this earth could move his feet from their spot in front of the most mesmerizing woman he has ever met. 

“Who are you?” He asks again, just as breathless as her.

She pauses, deliberating whether to tell him. “Michelle,” she says.

“Michelle, bite me again. Bleed me dry.”

This time, Michelle doesn’t turn him around. She leans down to suck on his neck, her hands cradling the back of his head and wrapped around his lower back. She moans against his neck and pulls him even closer into her, sucks even harder. Peter feels himself getting dizzy, his mind going foggier as she takes more blood. 

Before he can pass out, she pulls back, lifting the bottom of her dress to reveal a small blade strapped to her thigh. Removing it, she toys with the tip, lightly pricking her finger and staring at the red dot that forms. “Have you ever tasted blood, mortal?”

Peter can only shake his head.

She lifts the blade to her mouth, looking into his eyes as she slices a clean stripe down her lips. The blood drips onto the floor, the barely perceptible noise of it hitting the ground meeting Peter’s ears. 

Michelle moves up to press her lips against his, pushing the coppery taste of her blood mixed with his own into his mouth. Peter lets it wash over his tongue and down his throat. He moves his tongue over her lips, shocked when he feels nothing of the cut that had been there mere moments ago. As if she notices his confusion, Michelle puts more force into the kiss, her sharp nails piercing the skin at the nape of his neck. She grabs him by the shoulders, pushing him down to the floor and falling on top of him, kissing him with a new frenzy that Peter can’t keep up with. It’s all so much, capturing every bit of his attention. 

He doesn’t see her lift the blade until it’s too late, gasping as he feels the sharp object pierce his skin and go straight through his heart. Hot pain shoots through his body, a lightning bolt of stinging and throbbing that stems at his heart and ends at the tips of his fingers.

He stares at the knife protruding from his chest, then at the woman above him. “W-why?” He chokes.

“Shh,” she whispers, “It will be alright.”

She fades in and out of his vision, blurry and muted. She watches as he sinks into darkness.

Then an utter nothingness overcomes him.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter takes in a sharp gasp of air, sitting up swiftly. Michelle sits across from him, a surprised look passing over her face before she schools it back into a neutral expression. 

“That was quick,” she says.

“Where am I?”

“You know where you are.”

Peter slaps a hand over his chest, frantically searching for the stab wound that… isn’t there. The place where it should be is healed over entirely, only a bit of puckered skin to show that it was ever there.

“I need—” he starts, but pauses, feeling something sharp brush against his tongue. Fangs. He has fangs. And he’s _hungry_.

“Blood? If I remember correctly—which I undoubtedly do—you have three mortals here, free for the taking.”

Peter balks at the thought. “They’re my friends.”

Michelle shrugs. “Suit yourself. You have twenty-four hours to live—if you choose not to feast.” 

Her human body morphs into that of a bat, and she flies off into the depths of the mansion. 

Peter sits back, weight resting on his hands. The cool press against the floor on his palms brings him back into his body, away from the heat raging in his mind.

He throws his head back, willing himself to feel anything but this hunger—this all-consuming, unbearable hunger that makes his stomach pinch and sting with need and his mind scream with agony. Tucking his legs into his chest, he rocks back and forth, pressing his forehead into his knees.

The hunger builds and builds and makes him want to rip his hair out of his head, strand by strand until there’s nothing left. He wants to yell and to run and to cry, but all he can seem to do is rock back and forth.

If he just controls himself…

_No._

He could just take a little blood…

_NO._

And they wouldn’t care, really. They’d understand. Peter could make them understand.

Ignoring the final _NO_ that rings out in his mind, Peter stands and begins wandering throughout the mansion.

“Guys?” he calls out, hands cupped around his bloodstained mouth, “Hello?”

He hurries through seemingly infinite halls and rooms, continuing to yell out. He breaks out into a run when he hears a faint call in return, moving towards it as quickly as he can.

“Peter?” He hears, louder.

“Are you here?” Even louder.

“Oh, thank God! We were so worried about you!” Right in front of him.

“We split up to look for you, and I was starting to think we might never find you,” Ned continues, stepping towards Peter. He looks at Peter’s face and takes a step back.

The smell of blood—fresh, human blood—permeates his nostrils. Peter inhales deeply, subconsciously leaning closer to Ned, whose face looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He might as well have. 

“Oh, my God, are you okay?” Ned asks, “You’re covered in blood! Is there a villain or something? Do you need your guy in the chair?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, his voice breaking. He lunges forward, latching onto Ned’s neck and sucking the blood from his veins. The taste of it sends him into the stratosphere, his eyes practically rolling behind his head. He can’t make himself stop—he takes and he takes and he takes until he can feel Ned growing weaker, his legs softening beneath him. 

A little voice—buried far beneath the screaming in his mind—tells him to _stop, don’t kill him, please, stop,_ but he ignores it, continuing to consume Ned’s life force. The voice gets louder, warring with the hunger and telling him to _STOP, DON’T KILL HIM, STOP,_ and Peter listens. He removes his fangs from Ned’s neck, laying him gently on the floor.

The faint whooshing of wings brings his attention to the doorway to his left, where he sees a sleek bat hovering in the air.

“I did it, Michelle. I did it.” His voice shakes, the reality of what he’d just done dawning on him as the hunger fades away. He never wanted to hurt Ned, never thought he could. He doesn’t know how he’ll bear to look himself in the mirror ever again. He catches a glimpse of the room around him in the window. The absence of himself in the image hit him like a brick thrown at his chest. He will quite literally never be able to look himself in the mirror again. 

The bat transforms back into Michelle’s lithe form. “Yes,” she murmurs, “You did. Now, come here.”

Peter obeys, walking towards her as her eyes gleam red.

As he stares into the burgundy abyss, something unlocks in his brain.

He feels power— _his_ power—flood back into him. “I thought—I thought you took this from me. I thought it was gone.”

“I only made you think that.”

“Wh-”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Michelle sighs. “You’ve felt the hunger. You know how it is, how it consumes you.”

Peter looks down. “I do.” His brow furrows. “But why me? Why not someone who didn’t have powers?”

“I could smell your blood even as you were driving up the hill. Do you know how potent one’s blood has to be for that to happen? I came down to see what smelled so divine, and I couldn’t resist. I’m not sorry.”

“Maybe you should be,” he says, looking back up. Knowing that he has the safety of his powers once more brings back something in him that was all but shattered when he thought he had none. He is shaken, but no longer afraid.

“Is that a threat, mortal?”

Peter grins, revealing long fangs that nearly touch his lower lip. “Do I look like a mortal to you?”

Michelle inhales sharply before running down the hall, her long dress swooshing between her legs and her curls trailing behind her. Peter chases her, hot on her tail. She runs into a room with a large window, but Peter leaps toward her and pins her on the floor moments before she could reach it. Her eyes widen and her lips part slightly—barely enough for Peter to stick his tongue through. So, he does. It’s not what he planned on doing, but she is irresistible. He can hardly bring himself to think of Ned will so much of _her_ surrounding him. Michelle doesn’t hesitate to respond, pushing up against Peter with the same ferocity he pushes down against her.

Her long fingernails rake against his back. She drags them down to his hips before reaching back up, under his shirt this time. Peter lets out a soft moan as her nails make slight cuts against his skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to grab his attention. She takes her hands off of him, instead opting to use them to push him off of her. 

She stands up and walks to the old maroon couch in the room's corner. The golden trimmings gleam in the moonlight as Michelle sits upon it. “Come here,” she says. 

Peter obeys, moving over to set himself down beside her.

“No,” she says, then gestures to the floor before pushing him off the couch.

Resettling himself at her feet, he runs his hands over her knees, pulling her dress back far enough to sink his teeth into her inner thigh. He looks up at her as he pulls blood from her flesh. She gasps, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him in place. When he’s practically choking on her blood, he pulls back. Michelle, hand still in his hair, tugs him to her mouth. They fall backward on the dusty couch, but do not breathe long enough for the dust to invade their lungs. Their noses bump and their chins rub against each other as Peter’s mouth crashes into Michelle’s. She licks his tongue, taking the blood gathered there onto her own before passing it back to Peter’s. The metallic liquid passes from mouth to mouth, the droplets doing an intricate dance in between their tongues.

Peter is undoing his belt when they hear an ear-piercing shriek from down the hall—where Ned presumably still lays. He starts, the reality of the situation once again crashing down on him.

“We must leave,” Michelle says, pushing Peter off of her and walking to the window.

“We?”

“Yes, we. You’re coming with me, are you not?”

“I have an entire life that I can’t leave behind. I have friends, family. I can’t just disappear from their lives.” _I can’t do that to May,_ he almost adds.

Michelle bites her inner cheek, “You’ll learn,” she says, “that mortals aren’t keen on our kind. You’re not like them anymore and it will be blatantly obvious.”

“I haven’t been since I was fifteen,” Peter says.

Michelle nods sharply. “You can blame what you did to your friend on me. You can say I controlled your mind,” she says, then turns her back to Peter and opens the window. 

“I have to tell him the truth. I have to be honest, and pray that he’ll forgive me,” Peter says.

The air jostles the curtains and flows through Michelle’s hair, making it blow behind her as she looks over her shoulder at him. “An admirable choice. I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“I guess it is,” Peter whispers, barely loud enough for her to hear.

And with that, Michelle turns into a bat and flies off into the night. Peter can only stare at the space where she was, a part of him wishing he had gone with her.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feel free to leave a kudos and a comment!
> 
> come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://soperiso.tumblr.com)


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